


All This Water, and You're Still Thirsty...

by RedUnicorn003



Series: Eternally stuck with you, in this life and the next. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Forced Relationship, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:10:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedUnicorn003/pseuds/RedUnicorn003
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenlock. Meant to be a fun story, nothing to serious. One day after school, an event takes place, and it changes both of their lives. BTW, looking for potential a beta reader/editor/someone to bounce ideas off of and force me to update, so if your interested just comment:)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A sketchy game

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading:) I have some fairly big plans for this, so stay tuned and tell me what you all think!

This place smelt bad, all the mingled scents of some with to much body spray combined with that of people who must be allergic to showers. It gave him a headache. Constant idiocy poured from the mouths of people who should not have been granted the privilege of speech. If it were possible to catch stupid, this would be the source of infection. This was school, and god did Sherlock hate it.

Sherlock hated them all. His peers were nothing but hormone driven, self-righteous imbeciles and the teachers were just entitled monkeys with degrees. There was only one person in Baskerville high that didn't make Sherlock want to drink bleach and lose faith in humanity, and that was John Watson.

John was interesting, he was popular but still vaguely intelligent. Also, he was the only well known, openly gay student in the school, and people accepted him, or at least pretended to. Any outside perspective could easily see that even though he was accepted, it was for all the wrong reasons. He was what you could call a, "Trophy Friend." The male students thought having him as a friend made them look like a good person. As if offering their friendship was some sort of self-sacrificing charity work that made them more admirable. The female students desired the stereotypical gay best friend which he was far from, and had lasting wagers on who would be the girl to finally turn the famously gay rugby player John H. Watson straight.

But John was so much more than just his sexual orientation. He was a genuinely good person, who also happened to be funny as well as open minded. Also he was attractive. Extremely attractive to be exact. Even though he would never admit it, Sherlock would be lying if he said he didn't have at least a slight crush on John. John was never rude to him, never showed unnecessary malice like that of his equals. Sure, he never really put forth extra effort to get to know Sherlock, but that was undoubtfully superior to the alternative.

The bell rang sending Sherlock hurling out of his mind palace. He was sitting in math, while the other students gathered their things and trudged of to their next class. Sherlock hurriedly collected his books and headed to his last class, Language Arts.

He walked in and took his place near the back of the class. He didn't bother to even get his stuff ready, they had a major essay assigned a few weeks back and today was in class work time. Sherlock, unsurprisingly, had already finished and turned it in a week ago, so instead he busied himself with some old unsolved murder case files. The room was soon filed with a blur of faces that belonged to unimportant names. Sherlock opened the first file and looked down to find 'BEWARE OF FREAK' scribbled in all caps on his desk. He sighed, it fit in perfect with the sick collage made up of similar insults that littered his worn desk. He went back to his papers ignoring the words that had evolved into just white nose in the back of his mind.

"Hey mate. Sorry to bug you but could you lend me a pencil? I'll return it I promise." Someone whispered to Sherlock.

He looked up to find John stationed in his usual seat, twisted around , one arm leaning on Sherlock's artful desk, eyes looking at him expectantly.

_Another ugly jumper and some more cheap jeans. Typical. Came in late as usual. Had a big game last night, last game of the season. Slept through his alarm. Rushed to school and forgot his bag._

"What?" Sherlock questioned voice laced with confusion. His facial features scrunched up a bit.

John chuckled, "Pencil? Could I borrow one?"

Sherlock fumbled through his notebook, "yeah of course." he added. However, after a while of staring down at the floor with the pencil held out he didn't feel it leave his hand. He looked up to find John looking down at his desk, his face a mixture of appalled, angry, and concerned. Sherlock followed his gaze which lead to the recent addition. He cleared his throat and Johns head shot up.

"They're all idiots. You know that, right?" John said, hushed. His features soft. Sherlock only gave a tight lipped smile in response, still holding out the pencil.

"Oh right." John shook his head. "Thanks." he said taking the pencil and giving it a little shake before facing forward.

Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the writing, smearing it slightly in the process.

**

By the end of the period he had solved three out of the five murders that he looked over. When class was over he stood up collecting his stuff, most the kids had already ran out the door in a hurry to attend to their after school plans. He felt someone tap his shoulder.

It was John, "Hey thanks for letting my use your stuff. Mrs. Adler would have killed me if she found I forgot mine You really are a life saver."

Sherlock took the pencil. Squinting at the leftover teeth marks that now laid scattered over his writing utensil. "Doubt she would have actually killed you over something like that. However, you are welcome. But I do suggest that next time you sleep in 41 minutes late you put your stuff by the door so you don't run into this problem again. Also chewing a strangers pencil really isn't the most hygienic action for both parties involved and I would advise against it in the future." Sherlock wished he didn't come off as rude, he really was just trying to give advice and help him out. Most couldn't decipher the good intent that was buried deep under casually implied judgment of their intelligence.

John looked at him with an amused smile. "How'd you know that I slept in exactly 41 minutes?"

"Your clothes, you normally don't have the best choice in clothing, but even you wouldn't wear dirty jeans. How can I tell there dirty? There is a burrito stain near the left pocket and the cafeteria served that two days ago. You rarely wear the same thing twice a week so that tells me you do your laundry on the weekend. You haven't washed those jeans since then. Also, you didn't brush your hair, only ran your fingers through it, they leave behind wider gaps than a comb would. Assuming you only give yourself around the average of 45 minutes to get ready, to grab an unclean outfit and brush your teeth would take about 3 minutes. I gave you an extra to make up for morning sluggishness." Sherlock had spoken to soon and he wished he could take it back. But you can't change the past so instead he just braced himself for some type of backlash.

John nodded with approval, "That, to be honest, was amazing. You have a gift." John complimented. Sherlock was stunned but couldn't respond before the athlete was glancing down at his watch, "Damn I need to get going, oh and before I leave I guess I should apologize for ruining you pencil, thanks again for letting me use it. See you later," he added in a jumble.

Sherlock shook his head, "Keep it, doubt you have another."

John excepted with a brilliant smile and flew out the door without another word.

~~

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why can't they just leave me alone?_ John sped walked down the barren hall as an entourage of hopeful girls followed behind. Desperate pleas disrupting the silence. They shouted things like, 'Just give it a try!" and, "no one likes just one gender."

John rounded the corner at the end of the hall, digging in his locker was the tall, rather cute, curly haired boy that sat behind him in Language Arts. John had always had somewhat of a mini crush on him. He was funny in his own way, always pretending to be so cold but John could see past that façade. John jogged up to him, a plan forming in his head.

He grabbed Sherlock by the waist, spun him around ignoring the slight struggle as a result of personal space violation.  John gave one quick glance back making sure that his audience had a good view and kissed the other boy, taking note of the softness of his lips. From were their cheeks touched, John could tell Sherlocks skin was cold, but quickly heating up. 

After a few moments he turned towards the discouraged crowd and yelled, "SEE!? LEAVE ME ALONE!"


	2. Battle Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all your patience with my awful updating! If you are reading my other story I want to let you know that publishing the next chapter is the next thing on my to do list:) Extra special thanks to Divine_shot, Mors, cumbercollective1037, Phantwinter, Bathulk, MyOwnDeductions, and all the guest! You guys are absolutely wonderful and are the best inspiration!!

Sherlock walked down the desolate hallway to his locker, taking note of the rather alarming amount of abandoned papers and used chip bags that now sought refuge in the overlooked corners of the school. The only response, however, that the carelessly disposed of prepossessions managed to elicit was a scoff.

He pulled out his phone, bruised and worn from years of abuse and neglect at the hands of various chemicals, from his pocket along with a set of tangled headphones. Beginning the never ending, ever time consuming task of unknotting them. Seriously, its just a pocket for heavens sake. How do they even get tangled up so easily? Finally managing to sort everything out without throwing it to the floor to join the other broken objects he placed in his ear buds and surfed through his available music, settling on Mozart's 40th. He enjoyed music, it was calming and could be arguable considered a device of mind numbing. As of currently, he was teaching himself violin.

This time of the year, apart from the god awful weather, was Sherlock's favorite. He could come and go around the school as he wished without being disrupted by the after school rugby practice and the low human intelligence it attracted. The school consisted of two buildings, one for lockers and one for classrooms. Sherlock was in the classroom building. He would have to go to the other building. Which means going outside. In the cold. Great.

He wrapped his coat tight and headed out the door, into the battlefield. The war was against the elements, and Sherlock was determined to see his side claim victor. Enemy wind pushed ruthlessly against him, but in the end man triumphed. An attempt to halt his assent at the hands of an ice foe proved to be in vain. Another success. With one final act of desperation he reached the doors of the second building, touching the door handle was like claiming a blood prize. He had won. This time. With some unnecessary dramatic flair, he threw open the metal doors and entered the school, wasting no time to head to his locker.

Sherlock aimed to turn down the next hallway, but stopped when he heard conflict loud enough to make itself noticeable over his brain-numbing noise. Presumably, something pointless and not worth his time, so instead he took a detour.

Adding another 2 minutes and 36 seconds to his destination, Sherlock eventually reached his locker. He quickly dialed in his combination and opened it. The first thing he noticed was the puke inducing scent that came hand in hand with opening the contraption. He dug, holding his breath, to the source of the stench. It was a jar of toads feet, hiding strategically behind nothing. How could it have taken him so long to notice? He took the jar and threw it into the garbage, completely tossing the possibility of bio hazard out with it.

He returned to his locker once more and was getting his stuff ready to head to his house when he felt someone grab his hips, turning him around. Sherlock's natural instincts kicked in, telling him to fight back, he struggled for a bit causing his left headphone to fall out. However, that part of his brain shut up real fast when he recognized the face of his attacker. It was John, and his brain turned into less of a solid object and more of a brain-pudding.

Then John did something truly unexpected. He kissed Sherlock, this action went against everything he knew about basic human interaction and game theory. It wasn't in a way a mother would kiss their child's cheek by way of affection , but the way you'd see it in some type of stereotypical overplayed movie that prepubescent-preteen girls would gather to watch. And it came as a surprise to Sherlock, but he actually liked it. John was warm and comfortable, open and caring. Also, it didn't help that he smelt like he just walked out of some miracle shower.

Unfortunately though, the kiss ended as quickly as it began. Sherlock tried to put his mind together but honestly, it was like trying to build a sand castle in completely dry sand.

"SEE?! LEAVE ME ALONE!" John shouted. Sherlock looked of over to see at who, he felt his stomach drop. Of course, there had to be a reason for the other boys action, and Sherlock had just found that reason.

_Of course, congratulations on getting your hopes up. John doesn't like you, of course he doesn't, why would he? No one could. You're a machine devoid of emotions, remember? John just needed you to get those girls away from him. What else did you expect? A relationship? Don't be ridiculous, love is just a chemical reaction that gets in the way._

Once the tidal wave verbal assault from the now emotionally compromised group subsided, and eventually vanished. John looked like to him, bunching in on himself, he was wearing a work out uniform. That would explain the warmth Sherlock felt, ha, it had nothing to do with emotions at all! Right?

John cleared his throat, "sorry, to like, kiss you like that?" He rubbed the back of his neck and bit his lip. This was not fair. John, who had by definition just assaulted him, wasn't allowed to now assume such a low power pose. Touching the back of his neck was the last straw, the ultimate sign of insecurity, which was a stark contrast to the earlier events. And it was pissing Sherlock off. Pissing him off because he still couldn't form a coherent sentence, he didn't understand why his chest was tightening like this, why he was so disappointed even though he had been right, and above all because he didn't understand why, despite all of this frustration, he wanted to kiss John again.

Sherlock straightened his back, cleared his throat , and with as much confidence as he could muster replied, "good day, John." He then turned and headed for an exit without so much as a look back at the other boy.

He couldn't, and wouldn't be bothered by a simple act like kissing. Even if John was the participating other half. After all, tomorrow was Saturday, and he would be up bright and early to finish off his most recent experiment in the school science facilities. The last thing he needed was thoughts of John to plaque his mind.

But of course that didn't work. Johns face was already graffiti on the walls of his mind palace, and had been for quite some time now.

**

John woke up early to the repulsive sound of his alarm clock. The glowing digital numbers read that the time was around 8:00 a.m. His bleary early-morning mind tried to wrap its thoughts around what had at once seemed like a brilliant plan, but now seemed like a worse fate than Chinese torture.

He eventually reminded himself that there was a reason to his mimicking the living dead at such an inconvenient hour. His reason was plain and simple: Sherlock. The events he had put into action yesterday weren't exactly a 100% success, and John was worried about how the debris of the event might have affected Sherlock. After all it was his fault that he had so obviously made the other uncomfortable, and John Watson was not the type of person to ignore the consequences of his actions, especially when the innocent were the ones put in the blasting zone. His mission objective: right his wrongs and heal any undesirable wounds caused in their relationship.

So here he was, up at the bright and early hour of 8 (on a Saturday nonetheless) to go to school in hopes of running into a boy he wasn't even sure would be there. This plan was flawless. It was likely, however, that Sherlock would be there. Most weekends when John would find himself in the gym, he would also find Sherlock in the science lab. He was always adorable to watch wearing bulky glasses and over sized gloves. One time he even accidentally started a fire, and John had watched as he frantically tried putting out the fire with some unnamed liquid that had only managed to turn the flames pink.

Stepping into some sweats and throwing on a warm jumper, John went to his car and headed for the school. He arrived just in time to see his target enter the premises. Good, that would by him some time to think of what to say…


End file.
